Fox Evil

11

Eleanor Bartlett was satisfyingly bullish when Prue phoned to relay the news about travelers in the Copse. She was an envious woman who enjoyed a grievance. Had she been wealthy enough to indulge her whims, she would have taken her grievances to court and been dubbed a "malicious litigant." As she wasn't, she contented herself with destabilizing relationships under the guise of "straight-speaking." It made her generally disliked, but also gave her influence. Few wanted her as an enemy, particularly the weekenders whose absences meant they couldn't guard their reputations.

It was Eleanor who had urged her husband to accept early retirement in order to move to the country. Julian had agreed reluctantly, but only because he knew that his days with the company were numbered. Nevertheless, he had serious doubts about the wisdom of leaving the city. He was content with where he was in life-senior-management level, a decent portfolio on the stock market which would pay for a cruise or two during retirement, like-minded friends who enjoyed a drink after work and a game of golf on weekends, easygoing neighbors, cable television, his children by his previous marriage within a five-mile radius.

As usual, he was overruled by a mixture of silence and tantrums, and the sale four years ago of their modest (by London standards) home on the outer fringes of Chelsea had allowed them to trade up to a more impressive address in a Dorset village where inflationary city prices overwhelmed provincial ones. Shenstead House, a fine Victorian building, lent tradition and history to its owners where 12 Croydon Road, a 1970s construction, had not, and Eleanor invariably lied about where she and Julian had lived before-"down the road from Margaret Thatcher"; what his position had been within the company-"director"; and how much he had been earning-"a six-figure salary."

Ironically, the move had proved more successful for him than it had for her. While the isolation of Shenstead, and its tiny resident population, had given Eleanor the status of a large fish in a small pond-something she had always craved-those same factors had made the victory a hollow one. Her attempts to ingratiate herself with the Lockyer-Foxes had come to nothing-James had avoided her, Ailsa had been polite but distant-and she refused to lower herself by befriending the Woodgates or, worse, the Lockyer-Foxes' gardener and his wife. The Weldons' predecessors at Shenstead Farm had been depressing company because of their money problems, and the weekenders-all wealthy enough to own a house in London and a cottage by the sea-were no more impressed by the new mistress of Shenstead House than the Lockyer-Foxes had been.

Had Julian shared her ambitions to break into Dorset society, or made more of an effort to support them, it might have been different, but, freed from the shackles of earning a living and bored with Eleanor's criticism of his laziness, he had cast around for something to do. A naturally gregarious man, he homed in on a friendly pub in a neighboring village and drank his way slowly into the agricultural community, unconcerned whether his boon companions were landowners, farmers, or farm laborers. Born and bred in Wiltshire, he had a better idea than his London-born wife of the pace at which things happened in the countryside. Nor, to his wife's disgust, did he have a problem sharing a pint with Stephen Woodgate or the Lockyer-Foxes' gardener, Bob Dawson.

He did not invite Eleanor to join him. Spending time with her and her sharp tongue had made him realize why he had viewed retirement with such reluctance. They had been able to tolerate each other for twenty years because he had been out of the house all day, and it was a pattern he stuck to now. Over a period of months he resurrected his boyhood love of riding, took lessons, reappointed the stable at the back of his house, fenced off half the garden as a paddock, purchased a horse, and joined the local hunt. Through these connections he found satisfactory golfing and snooker partners, enjoyed a sail now and then, and after eighteen months pronounced himself entirely satisfied with life in the country.

Predictably, Eleanor was furious, accusing him of wasting their money on selfish pursuits that benefited only him. She harbored a continuing resentment that they had missed the housing boom by a year, particularly when she learned that their ex-neighbors in Chelsea had sold an identical house two years later for a hundred thousand more. With typical doublethink, she conveniently forgot her part in the move, and blamed her husband for selling out too soon.

Her tongue grew teeth. His redundancy hadn't been that generous, in all conscience, and they couldn't afford to splash out whenever they felt like it. How could he waste money on doing up the stable when the house needed redecorating and recarpeting? What sort of impression would faded paint and shabby carpets make on visitors? He'd joined the hunt deliberately to scupper her chances with the Lockyer-Foxes. Didn't he know that Ailsa supported the League Against Cruel Sports?

Julian, intensely bored with both her and her social climbing, advised her to try less hard. There was no point getting uppity if people didn't socialize the way she wanted, he said. Ailsa's idea of a good time was to sit on charitable committees. James's was to shut himself in his library in order to compile his family's history. They were private people, and they weren't remotely interested in wasting time on trivial chatter or dressing up for drinks and dinner parties. How did he know all this? Eleanor had asked. A chap in the pub had told him.

The Weldons' purchase of Shenstead Farm had been a life-saver for Eleanor. In Prue, she found a bosom pal who could restore her confidence. Prue was the admiring acolyte with a circle of contacts from her ten years on the other side of Dorchester that Eleanor needed. Eleanor was the sophisticated London steel in Prue's backbone that gave her permission to voice her criticism of men and marriage. Together they joined a golf club, learned to play bridge, and went on shopping expeditions to Bournemouth and Bath. It was a friendship made in heaven-or hell, depending on your viewpoint-two women in perfect tune with each other.

Julian had remarked sourly to Dick some months before, during a particularly dire supper party when Eleanor and Prue had ganged up drunkenly to abuse them, that their wives were Thelma and Louise going through menopause-but without the sex appeal. The only mercy was they hadn't met earlier, he said, otherwise every man on the planet would be dead-irrespective of whether he'd found the nerve to rape them or not. Dick had never seen the movie, but he laughed nonetheless.

It wasn't surprising, therefore, that Prue distorted the facts when she spoke to Eleanor that Boxing Day morning. Julian's "passing the buck" became "a typical male reluctance to be involved"; Dick's "idiocy in phoning Shenstead Manor" became "a panic reaction to something he couldn't handle"; and the solicitor's "abusive calls" and "slander" became "cowardly threats because James was too frightened to sue."

"How many travelers are there?" asked Eleanor. "It's not a repeat of Barton Edge, I hope. The Echo gave a figure of four hundred for that."

"I don't know-Dick went off in a huff without giving any details-but there can't be many or their vehicles would be clogging the street. The traffic jams to Barton Edge were five miles long."

"Did he call the police?"

Prue gave an irritated sigh. "Probably not. You know how he shies away from confrontation."

"All right, leave it with me," said Eleanor, who was used to taking control. "I'll have a look, then ring the police. There's no point wasting money on solicitors before we have to."

"Call me back when you know what's happening. I'm in all day. Jack and Belinda are due this evening… but not till after six."

"Will do," said Eleanor, adding a cheerful "goodbye" before going through to the back porch to find her padded candy-stripe jacket and designer walking boots. She was a few years older than her friend, rapidly approaching sixty, but she always lied about her age. Prue's hips were spreading disastrously, but Eleanor worked hard to keep hers in trim. HRT had kept her skin in good condition for eight years but she was obsessive about keeping her weight down. She didn't want to be sixty; she certainly didn't want to look sixty.

She sidled past her BMW in the drive, and thought how much better everything had been since Ailsa died. There was no question who was the leading lady of the village now. The money situation had improved by leaps and bounds. She boasted to Prue about bull markets and the wisdom of investing offshore, while being grateful that her friend was too stupid to understand what she was talking about. She didn't want to answer difficult questions.

Her route to the Copse took her past Shenstead Manor and she paused to fire her usual inquisitive glance up the driveway. She was surprised to see a dark green Discovery parked in front of the dining-room window and wondered who it belonged to. Certainly not the solicitor, who had arrived in a silver Lexus on Christmas Eve, nor Leo, who had driven her around London a couple of months ago in a black Mercedes. Elizabeth? Surely not. The Colonel's daughter could barely string a sentence together, let alone drive a car.

Mark put out a hand to hold Nancy back as they rounded the corner of the house from the garage block. "There's that bloody Bartlett woman," he said crossly, nodding toward the gate. "She's trying to work out who your car belongs to."

Nancy took stock of the distant figure in its pink jacket and pastel ski pants. "How old is she?"

"No idea. Her husband admits to sixty, but she's his second wife-used to be his secretary-so she's probably a lot younger."

"How long have they lived here?"

"Not sure. Three years… four years."

"What did Ailsa think of her?"

"Called her Tokeweed'… common as muck, pokes her nose in where it isn't wanted, stinks to high heaven, and lives in a bog." Mark watched Eleanor move out of sight, then turned to Nancy with a grin. "It's a poisonous plant in America. Gives you headaches and nausea if you're unwise enough to swallow it. Your mother probably knows about it if she's interested in global flora. Ailsa certainly did. It has pretty berries and edible shoots but the root and stem are poisonous."

Nancy smiled. "What did she call Prue Weldon?"

"Staggerbush. A poisonous shrub that affects sheep."

"You?"

He moved out onto the drive. "What makes you think she called me anything?"

"Instinct," she murmured, following him.

"Mandrake," he said dryly.

It was Nancy's turn to laugh. "Was that meant as a compliment or an insult?"

"I was never too sure. I looked it up once. The root is said to look like a man and gives a terrible shriek when it's pulled from the ground. The Greeks used it as both an emetic and an anesthetic. It's poisonous in large doses and soporific in small ones. I prefer to think she looked at my name, M. Ankerton… saw Man… and added drake."

"I doubt it. Pokeweed and Staggerbush are brilliantly evocative, so presumably Mandrake was intended to be, too. Man. Drake." Her eyes twinkled again as she made a deliberate separation between the words. "Doubly macho, therefore. I'm sure it was meant as a compliment."

"What about the poisonous aspect?"

"You're not giving credit to its other properties. It's fabled to have magical powers, particularly against demonic possession. In the Middle Ages people put the roots on their mantelpieces to bring happiness and prosperity to their houses and ward off evil. It was also used as a love potion and a cure for infertility."

He looked amused. "You've got Ailsa's genes as well," he said. "That's almost word for word what she said when I accused her of lumping me in with Pokeweed and Staggerbush."

"Mm," she said coolly, leaning against her car, still indifferent to her genetic heritage. "What did she call James?"

"Darling."

"I don't mean to his face. What was her nickname for him?"

"She didn't have one. She always referred to him as 'James' or 'my husband.' "

She crossed her arms and stared at him with a thoughtful expression. "When she called him 'darling,' did she sound as if she meant it?"

"Why do you ask?"

"Most people don't. It's a term of endearment that means very little… like: 'I love you with all my heart.' If someone said that to me, I'd stick my fingers down my throat."

He recalled how often he'd called women "darling" without thinking about it. "What do you like to be called?"

"Nancy. But I'm happy to accept Smith or Captain."

"Even by lovers?"

"Particularly by lovers. I expect a man to know who I am when he shoves his prick up my fanny. 'Darling' could be anyone."

"Christ!" he said with feeling. "Do all women think like you?"

"Obviously not, otherwise they wouldn't use endearments on their men."

He felt an irrational need to defend Ailsa. "Ailsa seemed to mean it," he said. "She never used it for anyone else… not even for her children."

"Then I doubt James ever lifted a finger against her," Nancy said matter-of-factly. "It sounds to me as if she used names to define people, not reinforce their violence with pretty words. What did she call Leo?"

Mark looked interested, as if her more objective eye had seen something he hadn't. "Wolfsbane," he said. "It's a form of aconite, highly poisonous."

"And Elizabeth?"

"Foxbane," he said with a wry smile. "Smaller… but no less deadly."

Eleanor felt only irritation as she walked toward the barrier and saw a fire smoldering in the middle of the deserted encampment. It was the height of irresponsibility to leave burning wood untended, even if the ground was frozen with ice. Ignoring the "keep out" notice, she put a hand on the rope to lift it, and suffered a pang of alarm when two hooded figures stepped out from behind trees on either side of the path.

"Can we do something for you, Mrs. Bartlett?" asked the one to her left. He spoke with a soft Dorset accent, but there was nothing else to judge him by except a pair of pale eyes that watched her closely over the scarf that covered his mouth.

Eleanor was more taken aback than she cared to admit. "How do you know my name?" she asked indignantly.

"Electoral register." He tapped a parr of binoculars on his chest. "I watched you come out of Shenstead House. How can we help you?"

She was at a loss for words. A courteous traveler was not a stereotype she recognized, and she immediately questioned what sort of encampment this was. For no logical reason-except that the muffled faces, army-surplus overcoats, and binoculars suggested maneuvers-she decided she was dealing with a soldier.

"There's obviously been a mistake," she said, preparing to lift the rope again. "I was told travelers had taken over the Copse."

Fox advanced and held the rope where it was. "The sign says 'keep out'," he said. "I suggest you obey it." He nodded toward a couple of Alsatians that lay on the ground near one of the buses. "They're on long tethers. It would be sensible not to disturb them."

"But what's going on?" she demanded. "I think the village has a right to know."

"I disagree."

The bald response left her scrabbling. "You can't just…" She waved an ineffectual hand. "Do you have permission to be here?"

"Give me the name of the landowner and I'll discuss terms with him."

"It belongs to the village," she said.

He tapped the "keep out" notice. "I'm afraid not, Mrs. Bartlett. There's no record of it belonging to anyone. It's not even registered as common land under the 1965 Act, and the Lockean theory of property says that when a piece of land is vacant then it may be claimed through adverse possession by anyone who encloses it, erects structures, and defends his title. We claim this land as ours unless and until someone comes forward with a deed of ownership."

"That's outrageous."

"It's the law."

"We'll see about that," she snapped. "I'm going home to call the police."

"Go ahead," said the man, "but you'll be wasting your time. Mr. Weldon's already spoken to them. You'd do better to find yourselves a good solicitor." He jerked his head toward Shenstead Manor. "Maybe you should ask Mr. Lockyer-Fox if you can use Mr. Ankerton… at least he's in situ and probably knows something about the rules and regulations re terra nullius. Or have you burned your boats in that direction, Mrs. Bartlett?"

Eleanor's alarm returned. Who was he? How did he know the name of James's solicitor? That certainly wasn't in the electoral register for Shenstead. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Terra nullius. Land with no owner."

She found his pale stare unnerving-familiar even-and glanced toward the smaller, bulkier figure next to him. "Who are you?"

"Your new neighbors, darlin'," said a woman's voice. "We're gonna be here a while, so you'd better get used to us."

This was a voice and gender that Eleanor felt she could deal with-the chewed diphthongs of an Essex girl. Also the woman was fat. "Oh, I don't think so," she said condescendingly. "I think you'll find Shenstead is well out of your reach."

"It don't look that way at the moment," said the other. "Just two of you's turned up since your old man drove by at eight-thirty. Hardly a fuckin' stampede to get rid of us, is it, bearin' in mind it's Boxing Day and everyone's on holiday? What's wrong with the rest of them? Ain't no one told them we're here… or don't they care?"

"The word will spread quickly, don't you worry."

The woman gave an amused laugh. "I reckon it's you needs to start worrying, darlin'. You've got lousy communications here. So far, it looks like your man alerted Mr. Weldon and he's alerted you… or maybe it was your man alerted you and it's taken you four hours to get dolled up. Either way, they've dropped you in it without telling you what's going on. Mr. Weldon was so fired up we thought he was gonna set a whole posse of solicitors on us… and all we get is a piece of candyfloss. How does that work, then? Are you the most terrifying thing this village has got?"

Eleanor's lips thinned angrily. "You're absurd," she said. "You obviously know very little about Shenstead."

"I wouldn't bet on it," the woman murmured.

Neither would Eleanor. She was disturbed by the accuracy of their information. How did they know it was Julian who drove past at eight-thirty? Had someone told them what car he owned? "Well, you're right about one thing," she said, jamming the fingers of both hands together to tighten her gloves, "a posse of solicitors is exactly what you're going to face. Mr. Weldon's and Colonel Lockyer-Fox's have both been informed and, now that I've seen for myself what sort of people we're dealing with, I shall be instructing ours."

The man attracted her attention by tapping the notice again. "Don't forget to mention that it's an issue of ownership and adverse possession, Mrs. Bartlett," he said. "You'll save yourself a lot of money if you explain that when Mr. Weldon tried to enclose it, no deeds to this piece of land could be found."

"I'm not taking advice from you on how to talk to my solicitor," she snapped.

"Then perhaps you should wait for your husband to come home," he suggested. "He won't want to run up bills on a piece of land he has no claim to. He'll tell you the responsibility lies with Mr. Weldon and Mr. Lockyer-Fox."

Eleanor knew he was right, but the suggestion that she needed her husband's permission to do anything sent her blood pressure soaring. "How very misinformed you are," she said scathingly. "My husband's commitment to this village is one hundred percent… as you will discover in due course. He's not in the habit of backing away from a battle just because his interests aren't threatened."

"You're very sure of him."

"With reason. He upholds people's rights… unlike you who are intent on destroying them."

There was a short silence, which Eleanor interpreted as victory. With a tight little smile of triumph, she turned on her heel and stalked away.

"Maybe you should ask him about his lady friend," the woman called after her, "the one that comes visiting every time your back's turned… blond… blue-eyed… and not a day over thirty… that sure as hell don't look like a hundred percent commitment to us… more like a replacement model for a beat-up old banger in need of a facelift."

Wolfie watched the woman walk away. He could see her face going pale as Fox whispered into Bella's ear and Bella shouted after her. He wondered if she was a social worker. At the very least she was a "do-gooder," he guessed, otherwise she wouldn't have frowned so much when Fox put his hand on the rope to stop her coming in. Wolfie was glad of that, because he hadn't liked the look of her. She was skinny and her nose was pointy, and there were no smiley lines around her eyes.

His mother had told him never to trust people without smiley lines. It means they can't laugh, she said, and people who can't laugh don't have souls. What's a soul? he'd asked. It's all the kind things that a person's ever done, she said. It shows in their face when they smile, because laughter is the music of the soul. If the soul never hears music then it dies, which is why unkind people don't have smiley lines.

He was sure it was true even if his understanding of the soul was confined to counting wrinkles. His mother had loads. Fox had none. The man on the lawn had creased his eyes every time he smiled. Confusion began when he thought about the old man at the window. In his simplistic philosophy age bestowed soul, but how could a murderer have a soul? Wasn't killing people the unkindest thing of all?

Bella, too, watched the woman walk away. She was angry with herself for repeating Fox's words verbatim. It wasn't her business to wreck other people's lives. Nor could she see the point. "How's that gonna help us get on with the neighbors?" she said aloud.

"If they're at each other's throats, they won't be at ours."

"You're a bit of a ruthless bastard, ain't you?"

"Maybe… when I want something."

Bella glanced at him. "And what's that, Fox? Because you sure haven't brought us here to be sociable. I reckon you've tried that already, and it didn't work."

A flash of humor gleamed in his eyes. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means you've been here before and got sussed, darlin'. I reckon the posh accent didn't go down as well with this lot-" she jabbed a thumb toward the village-"as it does with a bunch of ignorant travelers… and you got slung out on your arse. It's not just your face you're hiding, it's your fucking voice… so are you gonna tell me why?"

His eyes went cold. "Mind the barrier," was all he said.